NOVELISTICALLY SPEAKING

...and so, here's the thing about novels: they are beasts, four legged with fangs and long, dark hairs, yellow eyes and hoofs that house dark, ragged claws. they are bulbs, planted deep in the earth that you would give tooth and nail to get rid of but every year just keep blooming and blooming. they are cross continent trips on long dark highways; forked roads that sometimes lead nowhere at all. but then, just as you start to panic, looking down at the old gas hand hovering over the red line like a hawk over prey, you realize that hey, look -- there's route 99, it was there all the time. and the beast in the dark you thought was a wolf, turns out to be your sweet lovable dog, good old Langston, woman's best friend.

...and so the problem with most first time novelists and would be novelists is that they are too busy thinking about mile number 3,596; the moment of arrival, the pulling into the station, the "hello ma, i'm here, i made it, i lived to talk about it" moment. too busy worrying about the end, rather than the means. and so if i've learned anything at all it's this: novel writing is a one mile at a time ride. gone are the days that i worry about the next chapter. these days, the days of rewrite and revision, if i can get a tight "right now chapter" where there are no extraneous words, no diversions, no dangling, meaningless verbs i'm happy. if my dialogue sounds the way people speak, with none of the pain-in-the-ass adverbs that pop up in bad literature of ever kind and certainly none of that nagging interior monologue (he thought, she wondered, he considered) then i am good. if i can get just the right hook in the plot to piece to the next hook, i am pleased. and if i know where i'm going, i don't give a rat's ass how i get there, so long as i arrive. if i have to get to mile number 3,596 by greyhound bus sitting next to aunt millie who forgot to put on her polident grip, so be it. if i have to fly next to grandpa joe who's breath is kicking like jackie chan, hey i'll pack my peppermint oil, dab it on a kleenex and pretend all the way there i've got a bad cold....but i will get there.

...the other thing is, i don't talk about the particulars of my novel. it's the whole thing about the power of suggestion. until i reach my destination, i don't need any backseat drivers suggesting i turn right when i know the right way to go is left. and even if it turns out that the way to go *was* right, i'll still be glad for turning left since there's always something useful picked up along the way. and so if an update is needed, then here's the way it is: the novel is coming along great. the "current chapter" rewrites exploded into what now needs to be two chapters and i'm good with it. and this is the thing about revision that i love: the seeing things with a clearer mind, the knowing of the charachters, the peeping under the dress and seeing what's REALLY under there. i'm loving this stage. and not for nothing but the way i see it is, it might be a long ride but you only get one chance to be a virgin. to write in this degree of obscurity. to write from a place where you know you have nothing to lose. where you are under no contract, no deadline. and should i be graced with a two book contract, i will have to say this: i write in my own time, i write for the story not for the deal. i'll be writing until i'm dead so there really isn't a rush for me anymore, which Tao and Shambhala have helped me to understand and embrace.

...and this brings me to why i love poetry so very much. it's economical. it's the bodega down the street where i can run in, run out. there is no threat of running out of gas, because i'm not driving. i'm simply walking, smelling the air, observing the flowers, saying "buenos dias" to mr. rodriguez who owns the joint. i'm in and i'm out. simple as that. poems come to me, i write em down, i do my best to revise them to where i need them to be and that's it. i wrote a piece last week about the children of sudan. fifteen lines at best, it was as if the spirits of the mothers was speaking through me. and that's what it is to me. me, simply the scribe.

...well folks, i'm out. just wanted to plop that on the page. good vibes today. really good. and thanks to tinne for stopping by. she's reading the same book as i, Women Who Run With The Wolves, and the Wayne Dyer, Power of Intention which i just ordered, so how cool is that?

namaste, shalom, peace, and all that,

angel

ps: and by the way, should anyone be alert to how jacked up my punctuation is, it's because it's the kind of thing that i just don't seem to have enough energy to care much about. i do my best, but like with sugar, i put too much of it everywhere. i have an editor that i pay before the real work goes out. sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet.